


Caged Man

by DustToDust



Series: These Cages of Ours [2]
Category: Hulk (2003), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner knows that the best policy is avoidance, but it's hard to avoid people when they're persistent and refuse to believe that the Hulk is any danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged Man

Clint is a strange kid, and it’s not the wings growing out of his back that make Bruce think that. He’s prickly like any teenager, prone to complaining and whining, and arrogant enough to think he knows all there is to know about the world. All common traits, Bruce supposes, except-

Except that Clint _does_ seem to know all there is to know. Maybe not all the technical things but all the important things at least. There’s a look in his eyes that Bruce knows all too well. A general distrust in the world at large because it’s proven itself unreliable again and again.

Clint’s been kidnapped, imprisoned against his will, and experimented on. He’s had his very body altered in ways that Bruce knows are not easy, in ways that look painful from the glimpses he’s had of the raw skin on Clint’s back. He’s been through a truly traumatic event and he’s acting like he’s done nothing more than stub his toe in the middle of the day. Like it’s all a stupid accident that he just has to suffer through. Something that happens too often to truly get upset about.

"Don’t you," Bruce starts to ask before realizing what a truly _stupid_ question it is, and continues because now Clint’s looking at him expectantly, "have anyone to go back to? Family, friends?"

"Nah," Clint snorts derisively, pausing when Bruce slows as they pass a natural creek that’s been incorporated into the irrigation system. "Nobody who’d notice."

It’s not a no, but Bruce doesn’t press further on the point. There’s lot of reasons to put that kind of apathetic attitude in someone, and most of them start with family.

"Alright," Bruce walks down a short bank to crouch by the running water and begins to scrub at the worst of the dirt on his skin. Clint follows and nearly tumbles right into the water when he doesn’t compensate enough for the weight of his wings. "How old are you though? Really, how old," he adds when Clint hesitates tellingly, "I’m going to need to know this, Clint."

"Sixteen," Clint says with a shrug and gives up on the bank. Wading into the water itself before sitting down and doing an awkward twisting dance to try and clean his back. Bruce watches as rust colored water starts to uncurl from him in little eddies. "I’ll be seventeen in a few months. What else you need to know? My social security number, blood type?"

"I might need a blood sample actually," Bruce pours a few hand fulls of water over his head before getting up to approach the kid. "Just to see what they did to you," Clint’s wings are beaded up with water that’s not really getting past them to his back. Bruce hovers a hand out to the side of the one closest, but doesn’t touch. "It’d probably be a good idea to take a look at these too. Can you arch this one up?"

Clint eyes him with a frown but does slowly lift the wing up. The other lifts as well like he doesn’t have enough control to tell them apart yet, which is good enough for the moment. “What, are you a doctor or something?”

"Sort of," Bruce leans in and carefully touches the mess that’s Clint’s back. He scoops water up, and carefully pours it over the worst of the dried mess that’s stubbornly sticking to the raised area where the wings meet his back. Somewhere just below the shoulder blades. "I do have a doctorate, but my expertise is in gamma radiation."

The skin around the wings is tender looking when it’s clean. Pink like newly healed skin and ropy with shiny scar tissue that’s going to harden and cause trouble if Clint’s not careful to stretch it now when it’s new. Bruce traces the lines with his eyes and gets a pretty good picture of what happened from the jagged lines. “How long were you there?”

His skin looks to be at least a month along in healing, but that doesn’t mean much.

"Don’t know, a while? I couldn’t keep track," Clint turns his head as far as he can to look at him. "They talked about radiation a lot when it was just me they were looking at. Radiation and some kind of serum."

Of course. If you can’t get the original source you start experimenting on your own as best you can. Really, it doesn’t surprise Bruce at all that Ross is playing with things best left alone.

Bruce sighs and checks the other side of Clint’s back to be thorough. It’s the same raised pink skin, but this side is threaded through with older scars under the grime. Raised white welts that look far older than anything a sixteen year old should have.

It’s sickening, the things that he can now see have been done to Clint. The things that made him look into the face of a _monster_ and decide it was the best option. Bruce looks away and gets to his feet fast before the familiar heat of anger can go further.

He turns back to the path marked with well worn grooves for tires and focuses on how he’s going to get them both clothed and on the road. “What do you know about Captain America, Clint?”

~

Clint knows what the average American knows about the old war hero. His origins and the propaganda that was so widely spread back then, but very little else.

"You mean he didn’t actually punch Hitler?" Clint asks with a crushed sort of disappointment that makes Bruce chuckle.

"No, the war would’ve been over much sooner if Captain America got anywhere near him."

Clint takes the brief history in stride and seems a little enthused about the possible effects until he realizes, on his own, that the wings are likely all he’s going to get out of it.

"They’re not even useful," Clint flexes them and then flaps them hard a few times creating a brief whirlwind of air that stirs up dirt around them before stopping with a grimace. "Just holding them up like this makes me tired. How am I supposed to do anything else?"

Which is a good point, Clint wasn’t made to support the wings and his skeletal structure and muscles won’t adapt well to them. “You probably won’t be able to fly unless your bones have become hollow,” unlikely, as the Hulk would have likely crushed the boy by picking him up if that were the case. “As for the rest,” Bruce thinks about adaption and the good points in altering a teenager who has at least one good growth spurt left in him. “Practice might help. It’s like building up new muscle. If you don’t work with it, it’s hard and hurts.”

They do find a farmhouse, eventually, and Bruce makes Clint stay back in the trees when he lets himself into one of the barns that doesn’t look like it’s used for animals. It’s filled with tools and a small bank of lockers for hired hands. Two are locked, but Bruce manages to find enough clothing in the other three to get them respectable enough not to draw looks.

He changes first. Stuffing his feet into oversized boots and looking for anything else they might be able to use. The rough cloth of the clothes itches at his skin more so than usual. His senses still up on high from the change. It’ll stick around for a few more hours before fading, and Bruce has become good at keeping his mind occupied to keep from dwelling on it too much.

Bruce gets a small bag filled with a variety of snacks and a few bottles of water before leaving. There’s no movement anywhere as he goes back to Clint and Bruce is mostly sure it’s Sunday. There’s no other reason for such a large farm to be so deserted on a nice day. It might work in their favor a few more times before the day is out. He’s learned in his time of running that people tend to either be more generous than usual on this day, or much stingier.

Clint’s wings pose a problem that would be more fascinating if it didn’t make the boy’s jaw go tight and his eyes fix on the ground. The jacket Bruce found covers them just fine once Bruce uses parts of his shredded pants to tie them down to his back. The problem comes about afterwards. The wings aren’t all that flexible and they quickly find out that Clint can’t sit very well without the wings being very obvious or the position being very painful for him.

Free, the wings arch up over his head by at least a foot, and trail down to about mid thigh. It’s easy for him to sit like that. Hidden beneath the coat, Clint’s wings dip down almost to his ankles, and there’s no way for Clint to sit straight up. He can, with some trouble, sit sideways comfortably enough that Bruce decides they’re going to try hitch-hiking.

Three trucks with only a single bench seat offer to pick them up and Bruce turns them down cheerfully enough that the drivers aren’t very likely to remember them. Hopefully. A dozen or more cars with perfectly empty back seats don’t even slow down as they walk down the road. It’s around noonish before a van slows to a stop, and they get in with an older couple who look like the lone hold outs from the sixties and the most curious eight year old Bruce has ever met.

Clint stretches out in the mostly clear back of the van and does a remarkable job of fielding the thousand different questions that Callum throws in between breathing. Bruce finds himself dragged into a discussion on nuclear weaponry that’s not very interesting but keeps their eyes all off the odd way Clint’s back twitches every so often.

Bruce has half formed plans to get Clint someplace safe still, despite the boy’s arguments. It’s simply not safe being so near him for a long time. For any amount of time really. He can’t just leave the boy though. Not yet. There isn’t anyone in the country, maybe the world, who’s better suited to figuring out what exactly has been done to Clint. Not if the people who took them both are still looking, not if Ross is trying to replicate Bruce’s research.

The rather obvious physical change can’t be the whole of it either. Not if Clint was exposed to some sort of serum and radiation combination. Finding out if any radiation was used will be easy, but it’s the rest that Bruce needs to figure out. Quickly.

"Kid’s use up so much energy," Megan says out of the blue suddenly, and Bruce has to back track a bit to make sure he hasn’t said something odd. He follows her look back and realizes that the constant noise from the back had stopped sometime. The kids are both asleep. Clint still stretched out on his stomach, and the smaller boy next to him. Close to drooling on Clint’s arm which he’s using as a pillow.

"It’s been a long day," Bruce agrees with a smile. "We walked most of the time."

"You’re so lucky he’s old enough to keep up," Devon enthuses from behind the wheel. "We’ve got a few more years before Cal’s old enough to do cross country trips like this."

The conversation picks back up but going onto the topic of when kids are really ready to appreciate nature and Bruce nods along when needed. Mind mapping out his next move.

~

They make it as far as Bakersfield before Devon and Megan’s route veers too much for Bruce’s comfort. They wander the streets, Bruce’s bag almost empty. They’ve got a sleeve of crackers and half a bottle of water left. He’s debating between taking them to Fresno or LA next when Bruce realizes Clint isn’t shadowing his steps anymore.

"Clint?" Bruce turns but there’s only a few people walking along window shopping, not paying any attention or looking overly upset. "Clint!"

Bruce has just enough time to think that they’ve been tracked down already before Clint casually walks out of a small side alley halfway down the block. It’s just enough time for Bruce’s heart to start accelerating, and Bruce turns to slump against the side of a building. Closing his eyes and breathing slow, pushing down on that rising feeling that always precedes his loss of control. “Don’t do that, Clint!”

"What?" Clint’s sounds annoyed and looks it when Bruce opens his eyes eventually. "I found a place we can hole up in for the night. It’s a few blocks away, and they’ve got private bathrooms too," Clint says the last with no small amount of glee.

"You can’t do that, Clint," Bruce ignores the good information that they’re going to take advantage of for the moment. He rubs a hand over his face and nearly groans at the boy’s confused look. "Clint, we’re being tracked. Even if you can’t see them, Ross and his people are looking for us. All the time, and a lot of other people too. If you just disappear like that I’m going to think they caught up with us."

Clint looks slightly guilty, but he still doesn’t get it. Bruce can see the confusion and lack of understanding in his eyes.

"When I get angry," Bruce starts and then stops. They’re still in the wide open streets and they’re starting to gather attention. Casual attention, but any is bad right now. Bruce steps away from the wall and pulls Clint along with him. "When I get upset or hurt, I lose control. I go away, and _he_ comes out. And when he comes out, he’s angry and looking to destroy things."

"Hulk," Clint says and there’s realization in his voice as he jogs ahead of them. Turning right when Bruce would have kept going forward. This block is less populated and Clint drops back to walk next to him with a grin on his face that floors Bruce. "Is that why he kept roaring? I didn't really think he could talk at all until he called be Bird Boy."

"What?" Bruce nearly stutters. His mind already going through another lecture on how bad the Hulk is. Something that he's never actually had to think much on having to explain. Usually a single look at him was all the argument that was needed. "He spoke?"

Bruce is thrown by the casual comment from Clint though. It's the first time that he's ever heard of the Hulk speaking. As far as he knew the other guy wasn't _capable_ of the kind of thought needed to produce words.

"You really don't remember anything do you?" Clint asks curiously as he slows. They're across the street from an unmarked building that takes a long look for Bruce to realize is a shelter. Probably privately owned due to the way it looks almost indistinguishable from the apartment buildings around it.

"No, I don't," flashes of pain and anger and the vague impression of violence. Piecing together the Hulk's appearances is usually done afterwards through the inevitable media blitz that follows one of his rampages. "What did he say?"

"Well, he told me his name," Clint slumps against a lamppost and critically eyes the block they're on. "He also called me Bird Boy and said I was going to go free."

Bruce doesn't know what to say to that. He's never had to think about the Hulk this much before. Nothing beyond the range of destruction he causes. It's incomprehensible to everything Bruce knows and he doesn't know what to do with this bit of information.

"They're getting ready to serve dinner. Let's go!" Clint moves before Bruce can figure out what to say. Jogging across the street to join a group of people starting to line up by the door. Some obviously homeless, and others looking like they're very comfortably situated in life. Clint is glanced over quickly by the group, and a space is made for him quickly. Towards the front, but behind a family with two small children who come walking up shortly after.

Clint is a strange young man, but it's fair, Bruce thinks as he wanders across the street and finds himself being subtly prodded up to a spot next to Clint. This whole situation is strange to begin with, and if the boy wasn't a little off he'd likely not have survived the experimentation in the first place.

~

"Where are we going?" Clint asks later, after a warm meal, and a shower experience that sounded like it deserved its own epic tale from what Bruce could hear through the closed door. Clint had eventually emerged soaking wet from the small bathroom into the only slightly larger room with bunk beds they'd been given after dinner. Bruce had slipped into the bathroom for his own shower while Clint began a battle against his wings with a rough towel. His curses had floated in through the door and the pounding sound the water made against the tile.

"We can't stay in the US, right? I mean, you said the Army's after us."

Whether they're in the United States or not won't be as much of a deterrent as Clint might think it to be, but there are advantages to it. "South," Bruce tells the web of wire holding Clint's mattress up over him. 

"Like Mexico?" Clint asks, and there's a slur in his voice that makes Bruce smile. "I know some Spanish."

"That might help," get them in trouble, but Bruce makes a note to quiz him on his vocabulary in the morning. "But I was in Mexico when they caught me," he'd gotten too comfortable, too settled, and something had been slipped into his food. Something unnaturally strong to have had any effect on him. "So further than that."

"South America?" The bed creaks as Clint shifts and one wing rustles as it flops ungainly over the side of the bed. It stretches down nearly to the floor, and does a good job of blocking out the light that had been coming in from the window facing the street. "What's down there?"

"A lot of people," Bruce responds. People with more problems to deal with than a stranger who keeps to themself. People who don't need real names or identification, and will keep to themselves when the wrong kind of stranger comes in and starts asking pointed questions. Bruce had stuck to small towns in Mexico at first that taught him that. He'd left a few of them after only a few weeks when the people started circling in around him too tightly. Suspicious eyes locked on a new person or group that he'd never stuck around long enough to figure out who they were working for. "It's easy to get lost there."

Clint doesn't respond, and Bruce can hear the faint sound of his even breathing. He listens to it closely before closing his eyes and letting the exhaustion that always follows him for a few days after a transformation take him down.

~

In the end, Bruce decides to forgo Fresno and LA all together. They leave the shelter early in the morning. Well before when they were told the had to check out, and the sun is just barely rising. Clint blinks owlishly around him as he follows behind Bruce, but he's not stumbling or protesting the hour. Bruce traces their steps backward from the day before. Stopping just outside of the construction site that he'd made note of yesterday.

There are two metal containers in one corner of the yard with massive padlocks on them. Bruce squints at them in the near dark, trying to determine if he'll be able to open them. He's learned, since he started running, the benefits of being able to pick a lock. He's just not all that good at it, even when he has the proper tools for it. The slim wire and shard of metal he's found aren't going to be good enough to compensate for him.

"We need something?" Clint crowds up next to him and looks at the lock briefly before snatching the tools from Bruce. Bruce steps back and watches as Clint deftly picks the lock in less time than it takes for Bruce to realize he's good at this. 

The container swings open with a groan, and Bruce holds off on the questions he wants to ask. It's early, but construction sites get started very early. He steps in and looks for the small yellow box that's bound to be in there. This container has the fewest tracks leading to it, and Bruce's counting on what he needs being put aside since it's not used a lot. It takes five minutes before he finds it.

"What's this?" Clint takes the equipment as Bruce shuts and relocks the container. Looking at the instrument face and tube.

"A Geiger counter," Bruce answers and has to physically push to get Clint moving again. 

"But this is used for-" Clint follows Bruce with little more prodding and they cut through the site and enter a section of the city that's mostly warehouses. "Why do we need it?"

"To get an idea of what's been done to you," Bruce has a vague idea of the layout of this part of the city and takes them further in. Looking for the tracks that he remembers passing through once before. It's harder to find them when his memories are all from inside a train that hadn't stopped though. "It's possible they used radiation on you, and I'd like to find that out for sure."

Clint doesn't ask anymore questions but when Bruce looks back he cans see the way his coat is shuddering uncomfortably. They're reactive with Clint's mood. Bruce has noticed it more often as Clint gets used to moving with them, and stops holding them awkwardly still.

They're lucky when they find the tracks. A train of cars is already there. Loaded and ready to be run, but unattended at the moment. There's locks on the cars that are loaded, but it's a simple matter to find one that only has a stack of empty boxes in it and won't be checked very well later on. It's a back and forth kind of thing that's just another thing Bruce has learned over time. As long as people don't mess with the product being transported, most railway workers won't try too hard to discourage train hoppers from riding the rails.

Clint seems familiar with this as well, and doesn't ask questions when Bruce begins to stack the boxes into a temporary shield from the cursory inspection the train will get. It's only afterwards that Bruce turns to the Geiger counter again.

"Hold that," Bruce points at the tube, careful not to touch it in anyway. It's going to be hard enough getting an accurate reading in the enclosed space. He's likely only to get one shot at it in the first few minutes of the reading before his own radiation signature contaminates the readings.

It's a simple instrument. Meant to be used if something iffy is spotted and get a quick yes or no indication of possible radiation. There's not much sensitivity in the machine and there's no real way of telling what kind it might be, but gamma radiation is one of the most commonly detected radiations so he's hopeful.

"Aren't these things supposed to make noise?" Clint asks as Bruce watches the readout. "It always clicks in the movies."

"Movies tend to exaggerate," Bruce replies, but takes a moment to adjust the instrument. Turning on the option that allows it to be used without having to constantly monitor it. The loud clicks fill the car of the train much to Clint's obvious delight. 

The numbers are telling, and there's no doubting that there's traces of radiation on Clint. Not as much as what Bruce carries with him, he sees that as the counter picks up his presences and the numbers spike, but far more than can be considered safe. Clint shows no signs of being sick or adversely effected though, even after one, possibly two months. It's another observation that Bruce can only extrapolate on without having an actual lab to run tests. He can't even measure the decay rate properly to figure out how much he was exposed to.

Bruce turns the counter off just as the clicks start to pick up in pace, and pushes it to the side. Settling in for a wait with a sigh.

"That good, huh?" Clint shrugs off his coat and unties the wrappings around his wings. Arching them up over his head so he can sit comfortably. The boxes are high enough to hide them with ease.

"They used radiation on you," Bruce says the obvious and ignores Clint's eyeroll, "What kind and how much, I can't tell with just that. But the amount that's still on you is enough to make most people very, very sick."

"Am I going to have to worry about losing my hair now?" Clint asks as he shifts over to lean carefully against the metal wall next to Bruce. His wings flattening and pushing at Bruce before settling down. He can feel them through his shirt sleeves, a little warmer than he'd expect. "No, wait. Don't they castrate people with radiation? Did I get sterilized?"

"Possibly," Bruce answers when Clint reaches over to poke him when he tries to close his eyes and ignore the morbid glee in Clint's voice. "Clint, I really don't know what's been changed in you."

"What's to know?" Clint sits back and moves into a sprawl that looks highly uncomfortable. "I've got bird wings growing out of my back. It can't be much worse than that."

"Yes, actually," Bruce says as Clint closes his eyes. Laces his hands together on his chest and looks like he's going to go right back to sleep. "It _can_ be worse."

"Says you," Clint mutters before tilting away slightly. Clearly over the conversation.

~

It's several hours before the train starts to move, taking them further than they could get by foot or hitchhiking. It doesn't matter though. Bruce is only just nodding off to the jolting of the cars when an explosion rips the doors open. Heated metal imploding in a sudden shock of sound and light that draws a pained shout from Clint that Bruce barely hears over the pounding of his heart.

His vision goes dark and Bruce opens his mouth to scream just as he loses the ability to do anything.

~

Bruce's first sense to come back is always taste. His mouth is dry and tastes like dust. Better than blood, but not as pleasant as when he woke up tasting apples.

The memory stirs Bruce further as it brings Clint to mind, and it's a sudden spike of fear and dread that propels Bruce to open his eyes. To jerk upward and find himself in a desert --the Hulk's favorite kind of place-- alone. He has a sense memory of explosions and the sound of heavily armed military helicopters but nothing else.

He doesn't _remember_ and he's all alone in the desert.

"Oh, god," Bruce looks at his hands. Rough with callouses that he never built up on his own, but seem to transfer over with each transformation. They're covered in a thin layer of dust that turns dark under his fingernails. There's no other sign of the violence on him, but there never really is. There hadn't even been a drop of blood on him when Betty-

Bruce hunches over his hands and shakes.

~

The first sounds don't register to Bruce. They're soft and possibly an animal, and his mind dismisses them. Animals tend to sense what humans can't and steer clear of him. They're safe because they don't stick around. They don't argue that Bruce isn't dangerous, that the Hulk won't hurt them or worse. Animals just _know_. 

It's not until something bristly but soft pokes at his back that Bruce looks up.

Clint stands over him with an uncertain half-grimace, half-smile on his face. "You feeling sick or what?"

"Clint," Bruce chokes out after a surprised moment of dumbfounded staring. The young man is bare chested, holding his coat awkwardly, and looks completely and utterly unharmed. "Clint, what-"

"Here," Clint crouches down and dumps the coat on the ground. Scratched up water bottles roll out of it. All filled with a murky water that Bruce gratefully gulps down when Clint hands him one. "It took me a while to find some water. I was going to drag your unconscious ass to it when I found it, but there was a bunch of trash there already. Don't worry, I cleaned them before filling them."

"Clint, you're," Bruce coughs once. Harsh to clear his throat of dust. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"The Army, I guess, they weren't wearing uniforms this time," Clint says with a scowl and idly plays with one of the bottles before opening it to drink it. "Bastards hit the train and derailed it. Stupid move if you ask me," Clint grins around the mouth of the bottle at him, "Hulk _really_ didn't like that and wanted to have words with them."

Bruce feels sick. Sick not only with the death he almost certainly left behind, but also with relief that Clint's not only alive but also unharmed.

"You'd think they'd be smarter than to lead with an attack guaranteed to bring Hulk out. I mean, aren't they supposed to plan ahead and all that? Who thinks it's a smart idea to make the superstrong guy you're hunting mad as an opening move?" Clint shrugs and rolls another bottle toward Bruce. Pointedly nudging it into his thigh until Bruce picks it up. "They didn't last long, and Hulk brought us here," Clint sweeps one arm out to indicate the vastness of the desert. "Wherever here is. I don't think we're even in California anymore. The big guy can get some serious distance when he's trying."

They're likely in Arizona, maybe Mexico if they're lucky. Bruce isn't used to being lucky though. Even though he has no other word to use for why Clint's still here and unharmed.

"There's a leanto back with the water," Clint says, supremely unconcerned with the mental contortions Bruce is going through. "It'll keep us out of the sun while you rest. Or me, since you're not even burnt."

Clint looks aggrieved as he scratches at one of his bare shoulders. It's going dangerously red and Bruce can tell it's going to stark peeling in a few days. The bridge of his nose and tops of his cheek are the same. It's not as bad as it should be all things considered. Clint gathers the empty bottles and stuffs them back into the coat before standing up. 

"You ready?" Clint turns and walks away a few steps before looking back at Bruce. Impatient and shifting from foot to foot as he waits for Bruce to get to his feet. He looks tired. Of everything, not just physically, like he's just waiting for the day to be over so he can turn his back on a bad day filled with minor annoyances. Not like he's just had to flee an army in the company of a monster again.

Clint is a strange kid, and Bruce is left speechless by it all as he climbs to his feet. The heat of the sun on the ground barely registers through the calluses on his feet. Bruce follows behind Clint without another word. The exhaustion of the transformation flaring and combining with the thwarted grief, leaving Bruce in a numb state that makes walking the full extent of what he's able to do. Walking and watching the golden-brown wings in front of him bob and flare in the slight wind the whole way. 

Grateful that he's not alone.


End file.
